Death march ENG
by Eliot Nightray
Summary: Mordred Trevelyan found herlsef as the inquisitor, but will she strong enought to fight her past? HI! I'm italina and i tried my best to trnslate my ff. You can send me a message if you find any errors
1. Chapter 1

div style="text-align: justify;"Alexius and his son left the room, so Mordred found herself alone with her fellow /

br /

Mordred remained motionless, her sword stuck in a crack in the stone, her face radiant covered with a mask of blood. Straight as a shaft, Mordred looked around for the look of approval from her companions. She scanned those grim and tired faces, searching their eyes for approval. Cassandra, who had remained at Blackwalls side, did not get very upset, too tense to let herself go, even if for a while. The grey warden instead seemed lost in analyzing the room, from how his eyes leaned curiously on the furniture, it seemed that he had never visited such a beautiful building. Such a curious attitude, certainly Mordred had often imagined the warden together with others of his rank to celebrate in the presence of lords in some pompous palace, yet Blackwall seemed completely lost. When he found Mordreds gaze he smiled, bending a corner of his mouth into a grimace and she puffed her proud chest /

br /

Her heart was throbbing frantically, her hands were trembling slightly, when she was yonguer she had never perceived so much emotion, the spasm at the end of the battle, the serene gaze of her companions, the joy of being able to finally rejoice free. She had won once more, she had taken the victory and brought it to herself as a mother does with the infant. It was hers and hers alone and the lust that had pervaded her, was now coming out painted on her face by a wide smile. She had not felt any fear when she had found herself together with Dorian projected in a distant time, because she knew that she could count on her companions and in finding them still faithful to her, although tired and sick, she had felt that flame becoming more and more /

br /

Here the companion concept was a concept foreign to her, outside of her uncle who had always treated her like a daughter teaching her the art of the sword and the pugna, she had never found others ready to fight at her side or willing to listen to her opinion. Instead they were there for her and with her, they had protected her, they had sacrificed themselves to allow her to win and they had never doubted. Certainly they were not always favorable to her choices, but they did not impose themselves, they did not crush her, they simply argued. They believed in her and knew that she could really paint the sky /

br /

The very idea that her own presence in the world would have changed its fate made her feel useful. Her father would no longer have to look away, leaving the room once she entered. She would no longer look softly at that mans shoulders, not anymore. His father would finally learn how his daughter was actually strong and skilled in battle. She had defeated Alexius, brought back some stability in Fereldem. He would have enjoyed, drunk on her health by treating her as an equal, while once again telling her story. He would even pass her the goblet dripping with beer, bringing to mind old war anecdotes, together like a real family. She would become that child she had always wanted to /

br /

Clutching the hilt firmly in her hands, so as to feel her skin twitch on the metal incisions and the knuckles turning white, Mordred rested her forehead to catch her breath. The blond hair fell to encircle her forehead, creating a veil over her eyes and concealing them from prying eyes. On the other hand, not even Leliana could have forgotten the bloodshot look of the Herald of Andraste. Hers must have been the face of a virgin of battle and not of a mad woman. How could she stay calm, though? The very idea of being able to please her father could have made her scream for hours and hours without stopping. When she had sent her on a diplomatic mission to guard her cousin and her uncle, she found herself unprepared and immediately thought that there were no other relatives to be assigned as the head of the guard. Her astonishment had been such that when her father had joined her in the family library, while she was reading a tome that her uncle had advised, she was staggered in her chair and had to exploit every bit of balance to avoid falling to land. The news had certainly left her stunned, but she had not felt any euphoria, certainly the mere idea of being able to spend more time with her uncle cheered her up, but she certainly did not see in that diplomatic mission that prominent opportunity that she so sought after, as said before she was certain that her appointment as head of the guard was linked to the absence of other /

br /

The pugna is not made only of iron and blood, many are the colors that paint it. You will have to be ready to face your enemies in fencing and words, her uncle Robert had told her, giving her a wide and sunny smile and ruffling her hair. A gesture that Mordred lacked, from many moons. When her mother passed away because she was ill, her uncle Robert had gradually gained her trust, first with small gestures. For example, he stayed outside her room every morning to wish her a good day. Robert realized that he had fully gained the girls confidence when, confined to bed due to a fever, he saw a confused and worried Mordred appear in the room. From that day on they spent more and more time together. He read stories to her, talked with her about the most heterogeneous subjects and combed her hair like her /

br /

Mordred squeezed her eyes tight, knowing what the image that would have appeared before her would have been. The body of her uncle, charred, dying. He told her to escape with a last faint sigh, while the soldiers surrounded her. She had led her uncle and her people to the council and survived, she had led them to death. Drops of blood dyed the stone, with a rhythm that was fast and then slower. She had injured her nose when Alexius had thrown her against the wall, not that it touched her much. She was used to pain, besides the nose was not broken at all, however the complete inability to breathe without being forced to emit noisy gasps irritated her. She tried to bring her mind back to brighter thoughts, because her uncle, seeing her so triumphant, would certainly have been torn between euphoria and fear and she would have just wanted to see him smile. When he disappeared she cried, aware that she had not protected him, but above all because she had not been allowed to attend the funeral. She had not been allowed to say goodbye to the remains, no reminder had been left to her and so she had arranged herself by building a small altar, just for him. Every night before bedtime she combed her hair looking at the mirror resting on the altar and in doing so she sang one of her uncles favorite tavern songs that he often sang to let her sleep,/div

div style="text-align: center;"emMakerbr /

Have you left me here/embr /

emTemplebr /

Sacred Ashes/embr /

emTragicbr /

Mark upon our land/em/div

div style="text-align: justify;"once finished, she placed it at the side of her uncles painting and thanked him. It was not the Creator thanking, in her mind she imagined that the hand moving between her long golden hair was her uncles. Now all that was left was her father, the battle that had just ended was a mere consolation of what had already been lost. After all, however, she had something to /

br /

As if she had been shaken by a spasm, the images of the battle followed one another in her head so quickly that they seemed blurred. She needed to think of something else, an escape from that dark room where her mind had hidden. In renewed strength and with the memory of the battle just ended, the breath, which had resumed a calmer rhythm, became rapid again, like that of a runaway stallion. She would not have failed to embroider here and there in her story, of her wounds and of how, despite the fact that her blood had started to run, despite her glance had become vitreous, she continued to hold her sword firmly in her hands. She might even have written a book, Varric could have helped her and who knows she could have drawn the illustrations herself. There was more to that victory, something she had longed for. There would be no more face to face with her, her father would have kept his head high, he would have looked her straight in the eyes like a real man and he would have loved her. He would have been proud to point to her as his daughter, she would no longer be the son who was never born, the heir to unwanted femininity. And then even her uncle could find /

br /

She looked up slightly, the braid of hair that crowned her head lowered a little, a few tufts left their ranks, fleeing here and there, first on the seraphic face and then on the shoulders, while the mane of long golden hair gushed from the center of the neck. She pushed her head away from the iron, inhaling noisily with her nose, feeling the taste of blood and mucus in her mouth, but she also perceived another taste. Something she knew well: fear. Fear of not being loved, of having yet another failure. With her eyes closed, still hidden by the fringe of her hair, Mordred wondered if her desires would really be fulfilled, if defeating Alexius would be enough to re-evaluate her name. Dorian approached her, that man had taught her how many falsehoods had been said about the Tevinter. He had proved to be a priceless ally, even a friend. Mordred had always carefully weighed the words and was not lacking in intellect in defining Dorian as a friend of her. Although he had leaned against her for a short time in battle and he was surprising speaker /

br /

\- Well, Im glad it ended in the best way. - Dorian took a break, steps of soldiers invaded the room. As drums of war, they grew stronger and closer and closer. One by one the soldiers of the royal escort entered the room. - or not..br /

br /

Mordred remained motionless, unable to think linearly. With mechanical moves she turned the sword knob on her palm, then thrust the blade into the case on her back. The weight of the weapon helped her regain an upright posture. The hero of Fereldem would finally see it. She knew her, she had admired her deeds and had even met her several times with her mother. When her life was still that of a girl, the queen of Fereldem had visited her, or better said, had brought her regards to her family. She was a young woman of extraordinary beauty, tall, sinuous, her bronze hair well kept in a bun, her voice calm and wise. That seraphic face carried some of Mordreds best memories with her mother. At that time, she hadnt found the words to even ask her a question, but now the outstanding questions were a lot and Mordred wanted nothing more than to be able to compare. She would have challenged her in a battle of witty observations and profound reflections. How she could sustain the death of her own dear, how she had managed to find love in such dark times, what she had tried to carry such a burden on her shoulders. Mordred bent in a polite manner, they had taught her at an early age what were the right moves to turn to the rulers. With her head bent, Mordred peeked, to find only two large boots. Male shoes and certainly not worthy of a queen. Without having received any consent, she brought her head up to meet the sole glance of /

br /

The voices that she had been able to doze all over the battle exploded in laughter as the king turned his gaze elsewhere. He conversed with increasingly bright tones with the first enchantress, regardless of her. span style="font-size:8px"Mordred/span. She heard himself called, she could hear hysterical laughter in her head. span style="font-size:8px"Mordred/span. It was not possible, she had not failed, not this time, not before the king. span style="font-size:8px"Mordred/span. So why didnt he speak to her, where the thanks were, where the words of comfort, but above all where she was. She could feel the anger growing, the blood growing thicker in her mouth, she could not forgive him, she could not forgive any of them. That the wizards had hid the hero of Fereldem, where she was, how she could continue to fight without knowing what to do, what to feel. Was it right to wake up in the evening, hot and frightened with a boulder on her chest? Was it right not to be able to sleep pursued by thoughts of death? Was it right to crave the caresses of a man once a servant of the Creator alone?br /

br /

Mordred reached the conclusion of being trapped and in doing so she let the anger speak for her, the wizards turned out to be traitors. She would never have helped them knowing what they were passing on, they had taken the trouble to conquer Redcliffe, to spit on the kings face and once again to get them to hold a complete and not lame victory in their hands. It had been theirs,not her fault. /

br /

\- The Inquisition needs magicians. - Mordred turned a steady and icy gaze on the sorceress, hoping that the latter would not /

\- And what would be the terms of this agreement? - once again, she forced herself to remain calm. Simulating a peak of fatigue, she scratched her nose between her fingertips. Actually what she was thinking about was how nice it would be to close her hands around that small, dull /

-Certainly better than those proposed by Alexius,- Dorian answered. - because the Inquisition is better than him, right? - again she found herself at a crossroads betraying her honor or a friend who had just been conquered. Which was the right choice? Perhaps little was left of right and wrong, but the idea of dismissing Dorian saddened her. She had never been selfish in her life, yet the anger she felt was throbbing in her hands was leading her to paths never traced. In search of comfort she turned to her companions, finding nothing but opposite ideas, if for Cassandra the magicians had to be checked for Blackwall they had to be treated as allies. Allies? Mordred let out a lopsided smile, the very idea causing her acute attacks of vomit. Now anger was subsiding, giving way to pure despair. In her most intimate dreams she had hoped to see the hero of Fereldem speak to her wiping away the web of thoughts of her mind. Still turned off, Mordred turned her gaze to the emptiness beside the king and he in return seemed to darken. He seemed to suffer from the absence of his wife and the reasons were very obvious, after all he loved her. Love, a feeling foreign to Mordred if not bound to the family environment. How could she understand it? could the desire she felt turning to Cullen be defined as such? Sighs, blushes, that spasmodic search for contact even for a few /

\- You and your people are no longer welcome in my lands. - from the emptiness around the king, Mordred returned the attention to the latter. The turn had suddenly /

It was clear that the only solution was to keep the wizards under the inquisition. Her cousin had come to the conclave to put an end to the abuses to which his peers were subjected, but he knew in his heart that magic could be too dangerous. So what to do. Silence fell in the room, she was the one who had to decide which plate to sit on. span style="font-size:8px"Mordred/span. The voice called her again and she was out of breath. Her head would burst, she just wanted a little air, a few seconds to be alone. All that desperation, that sense of slippery defeat and betrayal were lapping her piece by piece. She just wanted her uncle next to her who could shake her hand, she just wanted to be comforted and cradled. She just wanted the Hero of Fereldem to tell her that she had been able to accomplish her /

\- You will surrender and you will submit to the inquisition - those words sounded so strange from her mouth, it didnt seem like her voice. No, it looked like something else to have her talking. In the enchanted look of the enchantress, Mordred found her cousins, he seemed betrayed. But they needed protection, control, they certainly couldnt..br /

\- We shouldnt have accepted the magisters help, but ... - the sorceresss voice seemed to break in two. She had betrayed them, but they had done the same . Mordred. It wasnt her fault, she wasnt the real traitor Mordred. span style="font-size:8px"Mordred/span. Shit, she wouldnt be able to shut her up. If on the one hand Mordred tried with all her strength to silence the voices that continued to call her frantic, at the same time she tried to quiver the desire to hit the first enchantress. The way she insisted on wanting to talk, to look for a confrontation that she would never /

\- The sky is open. We are all in danger - she raised her voice a few tones, wanting to put an end to that useless conversation. - there is no more room for failure. We cannot close it without you, but we would be foolish in putting any trust in itbr /

br /

Once again a heavy silence fell. While Alistair continued with his monologue, everyone looked at her with eyes of mercy or disapproval. The only eyes that Mordred saw, however, were those of her cousin, the face of those who have been dead for weeks, greenish skin, glazed eyes. He was talking to her, begging her to let him style="font-size:8px"Mordred/span. Wasnt that what he had always wanted? Freedom from the Templars and the Circle, the inquisition would have offered more to the magicians, they would no longer have to rebel. If it was really what he wanted why he was staring at her, he was pointing her, he was crying. The wizards were a threat, they had betrayed all of them, how could he not understand it. Mordred. Her movements became mechanical, her voice completely missed. Mordred. He could not have lost, not entirely. So why span style="font-size:16px"Mordred./span span style="font-size:20px" /

br /

\- Thats enough!br /

br /

Lying on the bed, Mordred let out a scream. She was out of breath, her cheeks were red as if she had spent the night crying. Her memories were confused, she remembered dragging herself out of the room, nothing more. She levered her arms to get up, the battle horn had been placed on the chair, the boots flung to the ground in a confused way. Her long golden hair was loose to form waves on her back and on the sheets. Someone knocked on the door, her emerald eyes darted into the room, but tired and tired they did not find the strength to force themselves to find the brush or a mirror. Thus, fatigued and deprived of all enthusiasm, Mordred levered her knees . Perhaps she had woken Vivienne from her sleep of beauty, certainly she would soon show up at her door to remind her that the Templars would have been the most appropriate choice. Perhaps Sera with gifts of all sorts and forms, ready to celebrate the capture of the magic threat. With one hand on the knob of the door and the other to caress her hair Mordred opened and that sight made her turn pale and immediately /

br /

\- Are you OK? - Commander Cullen was at her door and she had loose hair, broken fingernails and a probable cerebral hemorrhage in place. She looked away, wandering into the interior hall of the /

\- Im sorry I bothered youbr /

\- I wasnt bothered, I was worried - Cullen, who was leaning against the door with his palms, stepped /

\- Ah. - she spontaneously caressed her hair with greater insistence, unable to calm herself. - I am fine, thank you. It was just a bad /

\- I understand what you are talking about, when the Circle was besieged we Templars were forced to torture of all sorts, terrible visions haunted me for many moons. If I can ever support you, come and talk to me. - with a nod of the head he greeted her and made the act of leaving. - Ive never seen you with loose hair, its very beautiful. - Before she could even answer, Cullen disappeared without turningbr /

\- I was hoping that two awkward lovers would be enough for a whole life - Mordred didnt understand if Lelianas words were addressed to her or simply to herself. She closed the door and leaned her head against the wood, just a little, the time for a sigh. A few seconds to accept being awake. She turned to the bed and collapsed again on it to help put on her boots. She had thought that this brief conversation with Cullen had been her reward. Although she still had a strong sense of unease, there was not much more to do. She had chosen the help of the magicians, she had obtained it or rather conquered it, but if this had been enough to close the sky, then it would have been enough to compensate for every unhealthy emotion she had felt. When she finally felt free, she opened the door and strode to her co-workers. Maybe her choices hadnt been the wisest, but the sky t have closed by itself. Only she could save the whole world, she the Herald of Andrastebr /

/div


	2. Chapter 2

Her heartbeat grew heavy, not because it was the first time she had entered the court but rather for the title that now stood out on her head. Inquisitor, it sounded so strange, even forced into the mouths of some. That look of reverence and love in the eyes of many who met her gaze had immediately made her blush, but she had not failed to see much more. Terror, fear, anxiety, agony. Mordred had not failed to revisit those emotions she knew so well in those dark depths in which she mirror herself. In the adoring crowd, there were individuals now devoured by despair, faces of those who had already lost everything, some even hope. They leaned toward her smiling and showing love, but it was easy to find in some the fear of defeat. She was convinced that many feared in her failure and in the fact that she could have been consumed by power. They feared for themselves, certainly not for /

They were facades, she was well aware of them, but they were masks that she knew well, a benefit she didnt enjoy at court. Who could hide behind a face of topaz or one of amber, what they were hiding. Those rigid forms, fixed over time, were for Mordred indecipherable and pushed her to wander in the room looking around . She expected from one moment to the next to see a knife appear. Her fears were such that on more than one occasion she had accelerated her pace thinking of seeing a blade inside a pompous sleeve. She had to use every bit of self-control to avoid hurling herself at a duchess who was sipping from a goblet with a neck so thin that it seemed, to a weary and labored eye, a /

Yes, because Mordreds eye was already fatigued although the evening had begun, in Orlesian times it means, recently. Her morning had been too busy, the preparation phases had cost her many years of life. Her morning had begun immediately in the most horrendous way. Her awakening had been more violent than usual, for a first moment she even thought she had gone blind during the night because, although ers eyes were wide open, she could see nothing. Having thus been awakened by an initial numbness that the night brings with her, she had discovered that to prevent her from seeing had been heaps and heaps of robes scattered everywhere on her bed. The colors were so heterogeneous and gaudy that it almost seemed as if a dry-cleaner had broken out. In the midst of that mob of colors, too euphoric to stand still, Josephine was standing. She seemed to sprinkle with her own light, Mordred for her part had always manifested a formidable capacity in being able to get up at the first light of dawn on the battlefield, a gift that seemed to vanish among the solid walls of Skihold. Sleep was the only pleasure she had left, along with a few fleeting kisses with Cullen. Having thus fully recovered, she had tried in vain to follow the monologue of the ambassador concerning the need for a high-sounding dress, which would highlight her inquisitorial nature. Josephine had not been wasted in details, nor had she avoided squealing from time to time despite Mordreds annoyed face. The latter responded to each question with a mumbled rant, unable to put together two words of complete meaning. At the end of Josephines long sermon interrupted by the inquisitors grunts or hisses, Mordred could finally see with her immense horror and enthusiasm of the diplomat, the dress that Josephine had thought was suitable for the evening. She had presented her with a large purple chiffon velvet dress with thick Fereldian-style embroidery. The wide neckline was supported on the shoulders by a thick tangle of black lace that continued up behind the shoulders where it slid downwards, allowing the back to be exposed. Mordred stared at the dress and then at Josephine a couple of times and then snapped a sharp no. Her disappointment was such that she made her take a few steps away, she would not show her back to any man, she had doubts about the very fact that she would be able to show herself completely naked to Cullen himself. The ambassador stared at her intently, as she moved towards the window to take a long breath of air. There was nothing strange in the form or in the fabric, it was a modest fantasy as she preferred, but the reasons for her fear were very different. It was a rotten body, so her father once said, the infertile wounds during the battles before and after the inquisition had already disfigured her skin. Of the battle wounds, however, she could only be proud, so Mordred did not begrudge showing the scar under her throat, but she felt terrified to show her naked and defenseless back. Looking out of the window with a good part of the bust, Mordred could not hear the door open, nor could she see Dorian and Vivienne slip quietly into the /

\- My dear, your skin looks alabaster, I dont see why to keep it from showing it. - Viviennes voice did not move her, she remained rigid, staring at the sinuous motion of the birds in the skybr /

\- You dont think you will keep yourself forever, I say it as a friend and a man. In short, you can not expect that the poor Templar remains impassive forever and then ..br /

\- Thats enough - Mordred, interrupted Dorian before he could speak again. With part of her face hidden in the shadows she let a sigh escape. - I dont understand why you all have to insist so much. Our cause is immersed in blood and forged in iron, certainly I dont need fine fabrics to show myself to the empressbr /

\- My dear, I see with regret that you do not fully understand the situation. - Vivienne seemed slightly annoyed, as sorry to find so much reluctance on the part of the girl. - I understand that you come from the Free Marches howeverbr /

\- However, I advise you not to say anything else - Mordred dipped her head in her hands, pushing against the slightly reddened and warm palms. - I was not born in a stable, my family has already visited the capital several times and I even met the hero of Fereldem before and after winning the title of queen, so I would ask you to curb your tongue. - a long silence fell in which Josephines embarrassment increased every second, it seemed by now clear that the motivations that drove Mordred to hide her person from prying eyes were very different. The inquisitor still let her gaze wander between the mountains and their cold hills before leaving her position. The idea of not being able to see the queen again made her lower her head, even for a few seconds. Months had passed, yet she still felt a terrible sense of despair and nostalgia. Abandoned then that initial state of melancholy, gave way to anger. Grudge against that insistence, that unhealthy curiosity to discover past secrets that she hoped she could forget. She tried however to maintain a calm and slightly annoyed expression. Perhaps, she thought to herself while the anger was slowly mingling with a strange sense of euphoria, they should have seen. Just as the colors mix, so did anger, fear and joy go together to create a strange numbness, a slimy feeling of peace in predicting what their faces would be. From astonishment to disgust, from curiosity to despair. - since you all look so focused on me this morning, I can only accommodate your requests. -Mordred let out an evil smile as she gently took the dress in Josephines /

They must have spent a fortune, funds wasted according to her that they would have found a better use in new boots for the regiment. The fabric was so soft it escaped from her hands, like water or smoke. Mordred, hidden behind the booth, allowed herself to smell the fabric, the smell of the fabric was the only thing she liked in womens fashion. Dorian tapped his foot in the room, perhaps unnerved by the slow passage of time. The fabric fell over her body like a veil, the neckline was not vulgar despite the wide breasts and the sleeves were sufficiently abundant not to highlight the muscles. Her arms and legs werent overly swollen, they certainly werent comparable to those of a man, but she was also a woman who held a large sword with both hands, her limbs could certainly not be thin or skeletal . However, her features were feminine. She allowed herself to take a quick look from above, lingering with her fingers on the scar on her neck before going out. She had a moment of hesitation, did she really want to show them her past? Dragging herself as best she could out of her little hiding place, the room filled with whispers that were at first low and gradually higher. Mordred, who had always kept her eyes closed and eyes lowered, pushed her loose hair back from her forehead before addressing her curious guests, they would have what they were looking /

\- So, commander, Dorian forced her eyes wide open. Before her there were no longer three people but rather four, with very different expressions. To the right of Dorian, red and with the right arm bent over the left one so as to allow the hand to cover his mouth there was Cullen. The poor commander seemed bewildered and decidedly embarrassed - what do you think of our inquisitor? Isnt she prettybr /

\- Amazing my dear, I dont understand the reason for so much fear in showing yourself to us. - Mordreds face swayed between pale and magenta. The passion she had shown shortly before had turned to anguish, never among all would she want Cullen to see /

\- Then commander - the ambassador joined in with Dorian wrapped in a little laugh, she was probably regretting not having even called Leliana to enjoy the show, she could have talked about it for weeks. - what do you think, dont you think its the perfect dress?

\- No - Cullen let go of his arm on his side, he seemed to have become stiff suddenly - we cant get her out so she is ...

\- Perfect? - the three guests tried to complete the captains sentence by speaking in sequence, first Dorian, then Vivienne and finally Josephinebr /

\- Gentle?

\- Harmonious?

\- Its .. - Cullen turned over on himself a couple of times, fumbled with his hands in his hair, maybe trying to put his thoughts in order, finally without being able to look at her anyway he spoke she is magnificent. - Mordred, in return, let out a smile, but she couldnt movebr /

\- Do you know - Dorian moved towards her and Mordred, now unable to beat a retreat, looked at him in alarm - for how beautiful she is, she will surely receive many marriage proposals and - Dorian was now by her side, from the position he could see it completely. In response Mordred stuck her eyes into Dorians and could almost see the reflection of her back. The necromancer looked away and just put his hand on her shoulder, as if to console her, he seemed sincerely /

\- Never! We will refuse them all, for the spirit of the Creator they will have to pass on my corpse! - Cullen, with such fury as to look like an enraged lion, let himself go to a brief but intense monologue that recalled Josephines increasingly euphoric gaze. As a lion he became a shy cat, stumbling over his own words as he left the /

Once Cullen left the room, Mordred could finally relax. Dorian, beside her, whispered something in a delicate hiss, which brought comforting words. For a while the voices of the two women became low, as if only Mordred and Dorian had been in that room. Yes, the girl had appreciated too much the commanders compliments, he flattered her, but would that same man who had blushed before her have reacted in the same way seeing her in all her nakedness? Would that past so heavy that she carried on her shoulders and that seemed to mark her every decision, allow her to embrace a life of sweet and mild family moments? An intimacy, which had always been torn away like a freshly bloomed flower. Dorian, now sure that his friend kept his secrets hidden, did the act of stopping her, but Mordred broke away completely. She had no evil intentions, she didnt want to enjoy their pallor, only to be comforted a little. In those few seconds when Dorian saw her, he remained certainly scared, but at the same time significantly sorry for his friend. A tender and sweet concept of friendship, having one or more individuals ready to support her. It was still a foreign concept to her, certainly they had fought together and moments of confidences were not lacking, like when she had accompanied Dorian to her father, but never managed to show each of her scars, to give a name and a meaning to all those signs branded on her skin. That body, which had become parchment, had never been read. She pushed the hair back from her back, bringing them to her chest so that everyone could /

\- Those are..

\- Signs of whipping, exactly Josephine. Twenty years ago, when I was only eight years old, I allowed myself to leave home to find out what had happened to my uncle. I went into his rooms, he was sick and I just wanted to bring him some comfort. My father didnt react very well - She let herself go to a nervous laugh, perhaps to drive away that pungent feeling in her eyes - he thought I had disturbed my uncle, so he punished me with forty lashes, my uncles age at the time of the facts. - a wall of silence formed behind her. Josephine seemed to tremble, almost as if she were on the verge of tears, Vivienne had tried, or so it seemed, to come closer to compare her, Dorian had gently stroked her hair. The more she looked at Josephine, the more she thought her uncle would be so excited to see her surrounded by so much love. So many were her thoughts, that in bringing his gaze to Dorian she found no one but her uncle who gently caressed her headbr /

At the end of a long silence, Dorian had managed to bring the laughter back on everyones face by mimicking the poor captain and his exploit against marriage. In doing so, once abandoned that gloomy area and wearing more comfortable clothes, Mordred had managed to reach an agreement, everyone would wear simple military-style clothes, sumptuous, decent and suitable for a fine environment like that of the court, but at the same time comfortable. After all, the ultimate goal of the party was to save the empress, not to dance. They had laughed, but when Josephine and Vivienne left the room, Dorian had taken the trouble to stay a little with Mordred. He stared at her angrily, his mustache bent in a grimace of disappointment and told her that if they ever met the inquisitors father at the ball, he wouldnt stop. He added that Cullen should have known everything, that it was even right that the latter challenged him in a duel, but Mordred had managed to make him desist, or so she hoped at /

Having thus freed herself from this cumbersome burden, Mordred was certain that the preparations had come to an end, a fatal error. Never in her life had she faced such a battle, because in fact taming that fair of hair had not been easy. Such and such was the honor of this assignment, that Mordred had lost the habit of wearing her hair shrewdly. Nothing but a simple tail encircled by a bun, a simple hairstyle that her uncle had taught her. A teaching that had unleashed in Mordred not a little laughter. Her uncle in life presented himself as a tall, powerful, massive and bald man. Nothing in my story can amaze, except for the very words of that man. In teaching her the secrets and techniques of this hairstyle for the first time, her uncle wanted to tell how in battle he had learned to wear his hair in such a way. According to her, her hair had once been long and sumptuous like those of a girl. It had been so difficult to hold back to laught, once she had discovered the origin of that hairstyle, that her uncle had mistaken her suffocated grunts for an asthma attack and a cerusico had immediately rushed. Simple and pure memories, where now however also a Vivienne stood out, armed with a brush, soap and various incense. According to the first enchantress it was essential, in saying it she had wanted to mark this words too heavily, to have her hair so shiny that it shone throughout the winter palace, not to mention the scent. Vivienne had spent not a few hours entertaining her with monologues on the type of perfume best suited to captivating his majestys nose, no lack of embroideries on why the empress loved a specific ointment, not to mention the ladys company ladies. Viviennes story had been going on for hours, so much so that Mordred herself had begun to experience a tenuous infatuation with a mixture of organza and elf grass. Such were the hours spent by Vivienne to entertain her on aromas and incense, that Mordred had spent part of the journey trying to convince Blackwall to buy a bottle of a moss-based product, which she herself had tried and which according to her would have been perfect for a rude man like the wardenbr /

Now that she was at court she felt tired. In addition to the heavy morning, she had been forced to flatter some of the nobles present by greeting them or giving small bows. She seemed to have a swollen tongue, even though in most cases she had merely presented herself and nodded her head. Embarrassing moments were not lacking, among these perhaps the most interesting was the small revolt led by the commander who had joined Mordred and Cassandra, according to them the clothes were too tight. Cullen had not failed to point out that it was impossible to breathe without breaking a rib. If initially Mordred had found it inexplicable why Cullen himself had given growth to this movement, once she reached the court she understood the reason for so much obstinacy. Behind the commander had created a small group of admirers of mixed sex. She didnt know how to behave, it was impossible to be jealous as the situation was ridiculous. Whenever she was passing by Cullen, he begged her to complete the mission, perhaps he would have hoped she would have cut Celens throat to avoid /

Mordred put her elbows on the balcony in the ballroom, trying as best she could to brighten her spirit with that glittering landscape. There really was someone who could rejoice in all that glitter. She had never loved luxury, in fact she had always preferred a sober wardrobe. Not because her father did not allow her to purchase fine tailoring, as much as she did not find the usefulness, she remembered having spent a whole day traveling along Val Royeaux along with her uncle, while the latter tried to conquer her with lace and lace. Despite the colors, the soft and sumptuous fabrics, Mordred seemed to show no interest. She remained motionless, yawning from time to time with harassing. Gesture that attracted the malevolent look of the shopkeepers who, in return, closed their lips, annoyed. On the other hand, she needed a treat in that latrine called Val Royeaux, a receptacle for squawking ducks, as she liked to call it. She had continued the day in a monotonous way, cheered from time to time by some curtain of her uncle who begged her, sometimes even on his knees, to spend her fortune, triggering a sequence of more and more laughter in the then young Mordred. She had continued to talk to him, until she had seen a pure blue Altura Perenne silk dress. The rippled shoulders looked like pieces of sky, so finely embroidered with white pearls. Long and narrow on the sides, it wore a cream-colored segment on the front that seemed to steal all the sunlight. Dazzled by so much splendor Mordred had remained standing in front of the shop before the good-natured look of the dressmaker who had invited them to come in and try it. Her uncle had insisted so much, but she could never hurt him by showing him the signs of her transgression. Despite her opposition, her uncle had given her that dress I will keep it in my home, until you yourself feel ready to wear it. Who knows, maybe when you get married, if there is a man so foolish as to marry a tomboy like you and he laughed, how much that good man had laughe, such a gentle souls. He would never have seen her wear that dress, he would never have seen her married, who knows maybe her father had already made it burn or given to some slut. Already feeling those miserable and disgusting voices taking hold in the depths of her mind, Mordred shook her head, straightening her torso. She really hoped that someone would try to stab one of those present, a gesture like any other to rekindle her enthusiasmbr /

She levered on the palms of her hands to pull away completely and let her gaze wander around the room, until she paused on the window. From the wide window, illuminated by the faint light of a pair of torches, was her steed. Judging by how the two grooms were limping, he must have made a faint resistance and Mordred knew it was weak, otherwise they would have been spilled on the ground like empty /

At Ostwick she had always had only horses, coming from all over. For the first time in her life she had bought a Halla, a beast of royal blood, or so had muttered the groom. When he arrived in Skyhold he had kicked so hard that he broke a fence. Their first meeting had not been one of the most festive, indeed it had been quite lively. Mordred had received notions in her youth about how to win the trust of a horse, but she was completely without information about the halla. It should have been friendly or respectful. Wanting to try a median approach between the two aforementioned behaviors, she bent the bust a little forward. Unlike her wildest expectations, the halla had risen on its hind legs, kicking in the air just above her head. If he wanted he could have hit her ,maybe even killed her, yet he had only moved the air. The two guards in her presence ran in search of some help, shouting the names of Cassandra and Blackwall. Mordred, for her part, had never turned her back on the steed, she had just stared at it. He had large and deep black eyes, surrounded by a bronze crown, his wide and pale horns encircled his head as if to prove the real origins of that majestic creature. The bronze mantle looked golden in the sunlight. With astonishment not only of the beast, but even of itself, Mordred stripped off her sword and horn. She let her burdens go to the ground and raised her hands, turning her palms toward the animals snout. How long they had been like this, maybe minutes maybe hours. The fact is that when Cassandra entered the stable she found them like this, Mordred standing in front of the halla while the latter smelled her fingers. This was not enough to conquer him, Mordred had spent many nights in the stable until the animal had stopped kicking. She had never been in agreement with the Elven names, she found the idea of not being able to pronounce them correctly quite annoying, so she asked Solas for help. In response the magician was annoyed and had therefore been forced to look in the library. With all the effort she had put into obtaining a modicum of trust, she wanted to be sure that her four-legged companion approved the name she had chosen. She had therefore spent the day reading to the animal a dense list of names that had been pinned until a tacit silence fell in the stable. Bramen, so he had decided to call himself, an elven name that had immediately aroused Mordreds curiosity, in a tone similar to Bramas Similar even in the temper that showed the craving that Mordred carried in battle, different species but not so dissimilar. Wherever she went, Bramen was vigilant with her like a hawk and was always ready to shoot faster than any Fereldian steed who had ever ridden. Riding with him was pleasant, the body so big always gave her the impression of being on the shoulders of a dragon. He let out a laugh as the halla turned to find her gaze, wondering if he could really see /

It had to be said that Mordred had behaved well, although in her heart she ardently hoped for the death of one of those present, had nevertheless managed to win the love of the court. Despite the fears and the more than obvious fears of Josephine, Mordred had managed to enter the court discreetly, perhaps even charmingly. Oh yes, apart from the unjustified anxiety of the diplomat and her indomitable concern, the party was taking place in the brightest of ways. Yes, she had found patches of blood on the upper floors, but as the nobles themselves had remarked several times, whispering indiscreetly, it was part of the game. The game, her uncle had once described it with a brief, but concise description: such a shit could only be conceived from the butt of an Orlesian. How to blame him. The Ostwick lifestyle was much quieter stripped of those hectic times and free from intrigue. Like her uncle, Mordred shared a discreet hatred of that intrigue machine, which did not take away the fact that she knew how to juggle. She could recognize a marriage proposal taking care of the laying of the feet, a duel from the position of the fan of some ladies. Mordred was thus limited to observing, mentally pinpointing the findings and then starting the cycle again. Josephine had seemed really upset, at least at the beginning, but the way Mordred had advanced into the grand ballroom announced by the chancellor had immediately calmed /

There had been a strange exchange of words just before entering the court. While the chancellor announced Gaspard, Mordred found herself waiting with her advisers with the addition of Dorian, Cassandra and Blackwall. If the latter, once again, seemed dazzled by so much splendor, the remaining members of the group could not hold their tongue between their teeth. In that more and more frantic buzz, Mordred managed to distinguish a direct phrase to /

\- How can you be so calm? - muttered an increasingly confused Cullen pushing his hair back slightly from his forehead - it almost seems like youre at ease. -. Mordred had given him a shy smilebr /

\- Indeed I did not participate very often in my aunts parties, but I have already gone to court and more than once, even though on each of these occasions I have always worn armor. I admit that it is very unbecoming to see how the looks of the Orlesians are so different before a woman in armsbr /

\- Maybe we could expect to get some marriage requests, dont you think? - Leliana pricked her without looking at her, perhaps too busy keeping a straight face in front of Cullens less and less hidden grinbr /

\- Oh, you are also human, commander. - Dorian had followed Leliana without having given him any order. They had to find it an interesting leisure, because Cassandra herself seemed interested, despite trying to hide it in disconsolate /

\- I dont see the need for this whole clown thats allbr /

\- Dont be a shy commander. Circumventing the speech will not save you from realitybr /

\- You can almost hear them, dont you think Pavus?br /

\- All those admirers of our inquisitor? - even before Cullen could have answered, although Mordred doubted that he would be able to judging by the blush of his cheeks, the chancellor called her. She could not then finish listening to that colorful exchange, but walked away with a good-natured smile. Small but sweet moments that she kept in her heart. Like the time she had been drinking with Bull to celebrate the death of their first dragon or when she had spent an afternoon carving the wood together with Blackwall. Sweet memories, which made her feel at home. A new concept for her, a feeling of warm serenity and peace. Something she had felt in moments with her uncle, short moments that ended once she returned to the solid walls of her /

Mordred was therefore advanced you must be like a drop, clear, straight and harmonious. That was what her uncle said as he dyed his finger in a pool of water. She heard those words during her first hunt, distant events, but never lost in her memories. He had wanted to teach her what her role was in the world. So she had looked at him while in front of his eyes there was a show of delicate beauty. Drops fell from his hand, following the grain, they ran quickly to then stand out at earth creating small furrows. Each drop is different, each has its own rhythm, its own shape, but you will have to be straight as they are and when you are on the ground, you will not have to suffer but nurture a new end. Just like this drop nourishes the earth on which it rests . After that event, Mordred had taken the habit of trying at home to hold a pile of books on her head, to strengthen her posture, as if holding a sword in two hands from an early age was not /

It is not surprising therefore that when Mordred came to the presence of the empress adorned with her most faithful companions, the woman who revealed herself before Celen was straight as a trunk, sturdy as a rock and as powerful as a mountain and all those stories that depicted her as a thin creature had vanished, like whisperings in the /

Found then a semblance of serenity moved towards the ballroom, obtaining a comfortable place next to a column in order to have a full vision of the whole. She could see Cullen, surrounded by a host of nagging admirers, and Josephine, taking in a conversation with her sister. On the way to the room she had even received some compliments, even some invitations to dance, and if the ear was not deceiving her, some noble had whispered wondering if she was sentimentally free. They were still compliments and could not deny having smiled /

\- Maybe I should congratulate you, inquisitor Trevelyan - next to her, with his back leaning against the balustrade, a man in an ivory mask stood. A long tail of blond hair rested on the right shoulder, the blue eyes seemed bored as he found it next door. She would have recognized that voice everywhere, even if it had been a faint sigh, since she had told many of her nightmares. Bringing her hand to her left shoulder where the family tattoo would have been if her skin wouldnt be so damaged, Mordred straightened up completely trying, nervously and confusedly, to wet the dry tongue that seemed to be burning with a perpetual /

\- Father - she finally managed to mumble numbly. She certainly didnt expect to see him appear at such an important event, he had always had little interest in the affairs of the empire.


End file.
